Nostalgia … wanted to write something on my blog, but it was not so important. Then I got lost reading a flux interview. the interview was a bit snore, I mean the questions. The interviewer seemed to have the typical “do you remember” type of approach that is currently around a lot, as if there was a past that needs to be buried. Time is a now and a continuum. The past isn’t really something cut off. Not even today.

(I now did decide to write at least a bit on here of what I wanted to write initially, on here.)

Phantasia … once an islamic guy, who wanted so badly to be a skinhead, but wasn’t accepted by the “white guys”, … he wanted to kill me with an axe.

He thought it would be even more impressive to try to do that with a clockwork orange long rubber nose.

As you can see he didn’t manage to kill me.

Funny is now, there is somebody I really like who would fit just the pattern what made that islamic guy wanted to kill me in order to try to be something like a white Alex towards me. ME : as a thoughtful person – a thoughtful victim maybe? haha. Well I am still around.

Many misogynists, of whatever ethnicity or whatsoever background, dream of being an Alex as how he appears in Kubrick’s movie – once they’ve caught up on the movie and the avatar-like characters of the protagonist droogs. It’s ridiculous. Especially when you reckon that Anthony Burgess’ book originally has what you could call a happy ending, but his American publisher thought that more positive ending to be boring. In the original version Alex abandons the violent behavior in the end.

“Let me put the situation baldly. A Clockwork Orange has never been published entire in America. The book I wrote is divided into three sections of seven chapters each. Take out your pocket calculator and you will find that these add up to a total of twenty-one chapters. 21 is the symbol of human maturity, or used to be, since at 21 you got the vote and assumed adult responsibility [...] Readers of the twenty-first chapter must decide for themselves whether it enhances the book they presumably know or is really a discardable limb. I meant the book to end in this way, but my aesthetic judgegment may have been faulty. Writers are rarely their own best critics, nor are critics. ‘Quod scripsi scripsi’ said Pontius Pilate when he made Jesus Christ the King of the Jews. ‘What I have written I have Written.’ We can destroy what we have written but we cannot unwrite it. I leave what I wrote with what Dr. Johnson called frigid indifference to the judgement of that .00000001 of the American population which cares about such things. Eat this sweetish segment or spit it out. You are free.” – Burgess as quoted here http://www.visual-memory.co.uk/amk/doc/0062.html

The one side

The other side

Punks on Kings Road
a poem by Farangis Yegane

fluttering through masses that have no soul,
spike-headed,
multicoloured birds,
searching-around,
up and down,
in neon lights
came to blosom early,
in basement-nests,
ragged-clothes, hanging-edgy-stuff,
chains-sounding,
weak hearts
up and down
and heavy booted,
crowded in bulks,
on benches, stairs,
empty glance
in multicoloured rags
tired-faced
up and down
at loss of goals.

Translation by Palang Latif